Disequalibrium
by shaolingrrl
Summary: Don's behavior worries Charlie. Just how depressed is he? Angsty, case related. Haven't figured out how to revise, so it goes here. Thanks, Irena Adler!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Not my boys, alas.

**Disequilibrium**

Late afternoon sunlight poured through the office windows, as thick and warm as melting butter. It brushed extra gilt across the spines of the classical mathematics references on the bookshelves--Principia Mathematica, The Elements, Disquisitiones Arithmeticae, Flatland. It coated the scattered toys with a layer of translucent gold and struck sparks off the clouds of chalk dust that hung thick in the air, giving the room its own subtle shimmer. It spilled across the desk of Professor Charles Eppes, who remained oblivious to the tranquility of the scene.

Instead, Charlie grunted in annoyance and repositioned the stack of papers in front of him so that the glare of sunlight off mid-terms wasn't quite so harsh. Darla, his grader, had called in sick--spring fever, most likely--and the tests wouldn't grade themselves. He consoled himself with the thought that he had probably seen every single way a student could mess up converting Cartesian to polar and spherical co-ordinates at least--to resort to idiom--a million times. He had Blind Melon cranked up on the MP3 player and a stockpile of bottled water in his bottom desk drawer. He could do this.

Charlie flipped a completed test onto the pile on the floor by his chair and pulled the next one over. He caught a glimpse of pink and sighed. Trevor and his boyfriend Walter both insisted on bringing their pink pencils and coloring in every div symbol. Politicizing mathematics made Charlie uneasy, but he could never bring himself to complain. He much preferred the tiny, exquisite caricatures of the other faculty members that Akim liked to draw impaled on the terminating arrows of his x, y, and z axes. Someday, when he got the nerve, he'd ask one of Akim's other professors what he looked like--

A screaming guitar chord made him flinch, and Charlie reached for his MP3 player without looking up. Yes, it had been sweet of Amita to record some of her favorite music for him, and yes, he'd been stupid to let her.

The MP3 player skittered away from his fingers and slid over the edge of the desk. Both earbuds popped out--well, that was something, at least--but he winced as he heard the sharp click of the MP3 player hitting the floor. He closed his eyes and let his head thunk onto the test. This is certainly a day we're having here. He ducked down and scrabbled under his desk.

His hand came down on the warm, slightly rough skin of another hand.

"Shit!" Charlie shoved away from the desk, sending his chair rolling backwards into a cabinet. Paper airplanes rained down.

"Looking for this?" said a dry, amused voice. Charlie groaned.

His brother Don grinned at him from the other side of the desk. Don's chin was just level with the desktop; he waggled the MP3 player at Charlie, then smoothly levered himself up to perch beside the stack of tests. He swiped an earbud across the sleeve of his dress shirt and held it to his ear. He winced. "Geeze louise. Amita?"

"What are you doing here? How long have you been--why didn't you say something?"

Don set the MP3 player down and surveyed the room. His gaze lost focus and Charlie saw the exhaustion his brother's smile had been hiding. Then Don pulled in a deep breath and turned to Charlie, slipping his smile back on like a Kevlar vest, and raised a hand in a "scout's honor" gesture. "Swear to god, Charlie, I was just going to wait until you finished with one of those papers. But you were so clueless--" his smile broadened to a devilish grin-- "I couldn't resist. I had to find out how long it would take you to notice. Which reminds me." Don glanced at his watch. "Approximately seventeen minutes and fifty seconds. Not bad, Chuck."

"We've been talking--"

"Already taken into account."

Charlie scooted his chair up to the desk and snatched the MP3 player from Don's fingers. It looked none the worse for the impact--more than he could say for his nerves. Larry had once opined that having one person who could still make Charlie feel like an idiot was a good thing. It would help him keep his sense of perspective. But did that one person have to be Don?

Don's hand landed on his shoulder and Charlie started, almost dropping the MP3 player again. He looked up.

"I'm sorry, buddy," said Don, and again Charlie sensed his brother's exhaustion. "To be honest, it was nice to just sit and enjoy the quiet for a bit."

Charlie nodded and gently set the music player down as he searched for something to say. He wanted to hover, to fuss, to invoke decent meals and adequate sleep; he'd wanted to for weeks, now, as one tough case after another battered his brother--shots taken and not taken, lives lost, lines crossed. But he'd watched their mother try to fuss during high school when Don would come home after spending a few hours post-baseball practice in the batting cage, wolf down left-overs, and then rush upstairs to do homework. It had never worked for her. He cleared his throat. "Do you have something for me?"

For a moment Don's hand felt heavy on his shoulder and he regretted asking. Then Don gave Charlie's shoulder a last pat and slid off the desk. "Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do. Nasty new drug on the streets." He retrieved a manila folder from the chair directly in front of Charlie's desk--presumably the one he'd been sitting in while Charlie continued to grade tests, oblivious to his presence.

"You were that close?" Charlie glared at his brother. "For seventeen minutes and fifty seconds?"

He was rewarded with another faint smile as Don hooked the chair with a foot, drew it even closer, and sank into it. "Give or take a few."

Don tossed the folder on the desk, obscuring Trevor and Walter's political statement, and Charlie picked it up. The folder held little more than a few tox screens, interview write-ups, and a map of the greater Los Angeles area with a scattering of seven red dots sprinkled across it--most in Northridge, two trailing down to Reseda, a possible outlier in Granada Hills. With an effort he stopped assigning even tentative qualitative significance to the points; without the data, he didn't want to chance corrupting his own thought processes. Under the map he could feel the outlines of smaller, stiffer sheets. Victim photos. Charlie closed the folder and looked up at Don.

"I know, buddy," Don said quietly. "Not much to go on. This got dumped in my lap a few hours ago."

"I thought you were still working on all the paperwork from that arson case."

Don shrugged. "No rest for the wicked," he said. "I want to get a handle on this as quickly as possible. It's--nasty." If Charlie didn't know his brother, wasn't watching for the signs, he might not have noticed the hitch in Don's voice or the effort it cost him to meet Charlie's gaze. Charlie frowned and flipped to one of the tox screens as Don continued. "It's being sold as Ecstasy, but we haven't seen this particular pill before. It's cut with--"

"Brodifacoum? What's that, Don? I've never heard of it."

Now Don did look away. "Rat poison," he said tightly.

Charlie gasped and turned back to the tox screen. Once he knew what to look for, the symptoms screamed at him: massive internal bleeding, hypovolemic shock, multiple organ failure. He flipped to the case overview as Don continued. "According to survivor statements, we've got a new guy in town, selling a new pill--blue, with a bird imprint. Surprise, surprise, the pills actually contain a respectable amount of Ecstasy--about 20 percent by volume."

"Guy? Single?"

"Yeah." Don ran a hand through his short, dark hair and slumped down in the chair, long legs stretched out in front of him. He stared vacantly past Charlie. Rainbows split from sunlight by the prism in Charlie's window danced across his face and Don closed his eyes and held very still, as though he could feel their touch on his too-pale skin. Charlie watched, entranced. "Witness descriptions all match. Mid-to-late twenties, brown eyes, short brown hair, about five-ten. Showed up with his goodies two days ago. So far we've found five locations that he hit, all in Northridge and environs."

"Two days? That was a Monday. Isn't Ecstasy a party drug? Seems like a funny thing to buy on a Monday."

"He was selling cheap. Called it an early bird special." Don grimaced. "That's what the kids are calling these pills--early birds. A few of the kids decided to try them out Monday night." He opened his eyes and Charlie swallowed at what he saw there. "Early birds."

Charlie refused to follow that lead. "He could just be the distributor."

Don shook his head. "I've got a feeling about this one. You want to make money, you cut with something inert--at the very least, non-toxic. This guy wants to kill kids."

Charlie rubbed his forehead, then weighed the folder in his hand. It was so thin--too thin. He couldn't tell his brother there wasn't enough data. He had to tell his brother there wasn't enough data. "Is there anything else about this case that you can tell me? Something that's struck you, that you can distill out of the papers in this folder? Anything about the victims? Anything about the locations? Anything?"

Don straightened and eyed Charlie, frowning slightly.

Charlie shrugged. "I've got my intuitions about numbers, and you've got yours, about--"

"Psychos?"

Charlie ignored the interruption. "Crime and criminals. Right now, with so little to go on, I really need you to put your intuition to work."

"Well--" Don hunched forward, elbows propped on knees, and stared at his clasped hands. Rainbows played in his hair. He looked up. "There's something very weird about the different pills we confiscated. Not all of them contained the same amount of Brodifacoum."

"Maybe he just started running out."

"Then he got a piss-poor amount to begin with."

"Okay, okay." Charlie flipped through the tox screens again, mentally correlated percentages to map locations. "I can try treating it as a basic mixing problem just to get started," he said. "I can come up with an ODE, play with parameters, generate some families of solution curves, but--"

"ODE?" Don's voice was still quiet, but a note of strain had entered it.

Charlie glanced at him. "Ordinary differential equation," he said. "A measurement of the rate of change of one quantity with respect to another, like velocity is the rate of change of position with respect to time. In this case, I'd try to see how at the percentage of contaminant in the pills changes in relation to--um, maybe a distance from some origin? I don't know yet. To be honest, the math isn't very interesting, but by that same token it won't take me very long. As soon as we get more data..."

Don had gone very still, and Charlie knew his brother well enough to realize he'd said something wrong. There was a grim set to Don's mouth and a speculative look in his narrowed eyes. Charlie suddenly realized what it must feel like to sit on the other side of an interrogation table from his brother. "I--Don?"

"Maybe if you think of your ODEs as ODs and your data points as dead kids the math might get a little more interesting."

Charlie sucked in his breath as a cold tide swept through him. After thirty years, he could convince himself that he was used to Don yelling, but his brother's quiet rages never failed to unnerve him. "That's not fair, Don. I'm thinking like a mathematician. That's what you pay me to do."

Don looked away and the moment passed. He scrubbed his face with one hand and blew out a long breath. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just hope that was Ivory Tower Charlie talking, not Jaded Charlie."

Charlie blinked as the cold wave receded, leaving him feeling shakier than he wanted to admit. He looked down at the folder, thought about how he'd refused to flip to the victim photos. "Ivory Tower Charlie," he whispered. "I think."

"Good." Don peered at his younger brother and something in Charlie's face made him raise a hand, let it drop. "Maybe I'm selfish, but as much as it bugs you to look at it, I wish you weren't getting used to this stuff. Because after a while you realize that you're actually not. Used to it, I mean." Don shook his head once, sharply, and grabbed the folder. He stood. "Maybe I should just give you a break--"

"No! Leave it. It's--it's okay."

Don stopped, wavered. "I'm going to hell for this," he said, and dropped the folder back onto Charlie's desk.

"Don?"

"Yeah, Charlie?" Decision made, Don checked his watch and turned toward the door.

"Are you still seeing that--that--"

"Bradford? The shrink?" At Charlie's nod, Don hesitated for a moment, glanced at the chair, then the door, then compromised by perching on the corner of the desk again. He eyed Charlie warily. "Yeah. Why?"

Charlie felt like rolling his eyes, but Don seemed to be in an oddly balanced state of depressed-but-not-too-depressed that left him willing to talk, and Charlie didn't want to add a frisson of irritation that might chase him away. "Is it--helping?"

Don looked at Charlie, snorted, shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe. I mean, you spend a lot of years purposefully not thinking about stuff, and then somebody wants you to think about stuff." His gaze came to rest on the top of Charlie's desk, and Charlie had to wonder what his brother was seeing reflected in the scarred wood. "It--it makes you think."

"About stuff?" Charlie asked softly.

Don glanced up and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Yeah. About stuff."

"Look. What do you say I gather up these tests and you take me home? You can hang out with Dad, maybe watch a game, and I can grade for a while and then work on your case."

"Thanks, Charlie, but I've really got to be getting back. I left Colby with the paperwork."

"Which Colby can do--"

"--except he spells about as badly as you do. Gotta maintain a certain level of professionalism in the office, you know. Besides, you don't want your gloomy brother hanging around all the time."

"Don't mind at all. You don't talk much when you're gloomy. I can get my work done."

"Ha. What about Larry? You can't have heard all his stories yet."

Charlie allowed himself a small smile. "True, but Megan gets first dibs."

Don nodded, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth as well. "Amita?"

"She's in Hawaii, at an astrophysics conference. She went for Larry. They're getting a tour of all the scopes at the top of Mauna Kea and he was afraid he'd get altitude sickness."

"Larry's afraid he'll get altitude sickness?" Don grinned. "He just came down from how high?"

"Well, the ISS orbits between roughly 320 kilometers and 350 kilometers above mean sea level, but it's actually a matter of atmospheric pressure--"

And Don finally laughed. Something in Charlie eased at that and he smiled up at his brother. Don pushed himself to his feet. "Tell you what--save me some dinner and I'll try to stop by later."

Charlie nodded. It was all he'd get out of Don, he knew. As his brother slipped out of his office, Charlie sighed. "No rest for the wicked," he murmured. Or for Don, either.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie fiddled nervously with his ID badge as he waited for the elevator. He was at the FBI offices on what was, for lack of a better term, a reconnaissance mission, and he had yet to come up with an adequate cover.

Don had not dropped by last night. Don had not called, Don was not answering his phone. Charlie chewed at his bottom lip as he stared up at the floor indicator, watching the glowing red lights count down. While their father, Alan, had shrugged and gone to bed, Charlie had gone out to the garage, where he'd dug up an old notebook and quickly flipped to one particular series of expressions.

Charlie fingered the notebook in his pocket. After that ATF agent, Nikki Davis, had died in what looked like a suicide, and Charlie's research had uncovered a disquieting number of suicides, broken relationships, and mental health problems among law enforcement professionals, he'd run Don's life through his model and discovered that, with his and Alan's help, Don should be okay.

He'd been so sure that his calculations were correct; he'd been so relieved. But had he weighted everything correctly? Had he chosen the right life experiences to quantify? Or had he merely been fooling himself? Even if his calculations had been correct at the time, Charlie had discovered that variables never vary more than when used to describe human beings. For example, Don had one more broken relationship to factor into the equation. How many girlfriends had Don had, anyway? What else didn't Charlie know about his brother? How much data was missing?

The elevator chimed, the doors slid open, and Charlie stepped inside, now more thoughtful than nervous. He pushed the button for Don's floor and rocked back on his heels, nibbling on the edge of his badge.

This whole therapy thing, for example. Was it truly helping Don? No doubt in the long term it would, but in the short term it seemed to be rendering him more vulnerable to his demons. Charlie hated seeing his brother so--somber. He had to talk to Megan. Not only to ask her to keep an eye on Don, but to discuss the whole process of psychotherapy--at least as it related to cases like Don's. He felt a little guilty as he realized that such a discussion could also provide input to his Cognitive Emergence work. But first he had to come up with an excuse for this impromptu visit--an excuse that Don would buy--because Charlie was, as everyone continually pointed out to him with such glee, a horrible liar.

Maybe Don wasn't there. Maybe Charlie wouldn't even see him.

The elevator stopped, still shy of the correct floor, and the doors slid open. Don, engrossed in the contents of a folder, stepped on.

Shit.

Charlie, backed up in the corner, held his breath as Don turned to face front and jabbed at the already-lit button for his floor, still reading. Charlie flashed back to the day before and his own foc--okay, obliviousness. Maybe Don wouldn't even notice him...

"Hey, Charlie, what brings you here? I would have called if I had something more for you."

"You, um, didn't stop by last night."

Don blew out a gusty sigh. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Got caught up in something."

"You're not answering your phone." Best defense was a good offense, right?

"Yeah. Been busy. Did you leave a message? I do eventually respond to messages." This last said in a mildly dry voice. Don looked up from the folder. "You here to check up on me?"

Charlie swallowed before that penetrating gaze. Half-truths were always better, but which half? "I need to see Megan," he blurted.

The elevator doors slid open and Don turned away. Charlie felt nearly giddy with relief. He followed his brother out into the foyer. Maybe he'd been worried for nothing. Maybe that simple statement would be enough. Maybe Don was too preoccupied to care what Charlie was up to--

He suddenly realized that Don was still talking. "--lunch with Larry, but she should be back soon." Don checked his watch. "Yeah, couple of minutes. You can hang out in the break room if you want. Sorry I'm not better company, but we've been canvassing those Northridge neighborhoods and turning up more pills. More pills and more kids to interview." He waved the folder at Charlie. "I want to go through these reports."

"Hey, no problem." Charlie turned toward the break room and safety.

"Why do you want to see Megan, anyway?"

"Uh--" Charlie stopped.

Because I want to ask her just how depressed you really are. No. Bad idea.

Because I want to ask her if she thinks the therapy is worth all the pain it's causing you. Naw, not that, either.

Charlie's mind always worked at light speed, but, when faced with Don, all too often that extreme velocity was tied up in the angular momentum of spinning wheels.

"Charlie?"

Megan--therapy--

Then Charlie saw the answer, and it was good.

He turned to Don. "I need Megan's help with my Cognitive Emergence Theory."

Don's eyebrows went up. "Yeah?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. Psychopathologies are giving me problems." His delivery wasn't very smooth, but Charlie was convinced that Don would buy his story, for the simple reason that it was true. Psychopathologies really were giving him problems, and talking to Megan about them was a great idea. After he talked to her about Don, of course.

Don eyed him for a moment, and Charlie wondered if he'd been a little too enthusiastic. Geeze. How fair was it if he couldn't even get away with telling his brother the truth? Then Don shrugged. "Makes sense," he grunted. "Just don't talk to her too long. She's got a job to do, you know."

"Bill me," Charlie shot back. He grinned.

Don chuckled. "Maybe I should. You can afford it."

"If it isn't my second favorite CalSci professor."

Charlie turned. Megan, arm in arm with her first favorite CalSci professor, smiled beatifically at them. Larry gestured vaguely with a vanilla milkshake.

Charlie had to smile back. Larry had been heartbroken when he'd returned from his ISS mission only to find Megan on the other side of the country, on a temporary DOJ assignment--almost as heartbroken as Megan had been when she left. But now both were back and seldom spent an entire day apart, and Charlie had sensed a new serenity, a new acceptance of the relationship on Larry's part. As for Megan, she positively glowed.

"Did I hear my name taken in vain?" she asked.

Don swatted Charlie lightly in the shoulder with his folder. "That's my cue, Chuck. Talking psychopathologies can be fun, but not right now. Maybe I'll have some more data for you in a while."

"Sure thing, Don," he said, aware of Megan's quizzical gaze. "I'll check in with you before I leave." He gestured for Megan and Larry to proceed him into the break room, explaining as he went. Colby and David were already there, squabbling over the last of a bag of French fries and talking March Madness. Colby smirked at the sight of Megan and Larry, but then he always did and probably always would. David's smile was warmer.

"Larry, my man. Good to see you. Pull up a chair."

"What am I?" Megan asked, with an unconvincing pout. "Chopped liver?"

"You've got work to do," Colby said. "We want to talk to Professor Right Stuff."

Everyone else in the room winced.

"As much as it pains me to disappoint you, Colby, Charles was just about to inform us of his latest progress on his Cognitive Emergence Theory." Larry had been surprisingly reticent concerning his experiences on the space station; this wasn't the first time he'd deflected attention onto someone else, and Colby groaned.

"It's not really about any progress, Larry," Charlie said hurriedly. He dropped into a chair at the table and reached for the fries. "More about my next line of inquiry."

Larry raised his eyebrows.

"Whenever I try to deal with psychosis, the equations blow up on me. I'm missing something."

David grinned. "Are you sure you want to use that phrase in an FBI building?"

Charlie frowned at him. "Oh. 'Blow up' is a math term. Colloquial mathematics, perhaps, but still a math term."

"Doesn't sound good," said Megan.

"Well, when you run into infinities you're generally in trouble."

Colby grinned. "That's very metaphysical."

Charlie gazed heaven-ward.

"You have a procedure for renormalizing them?" asked Larry.

Charlie shrugged. "Not that I've found thus far."

David nudged Colby, who shook his head. "Naw. Too easy."

Larry sucked thoughtfully on his straw. "You know, Charles, we've discussed specifics of your work, but I don't believe I've ever asked you if you have any sort of guiding model."

Charlie stopped, considered, nodded. "I think you're right."

Larry smiled. "Perhaps I'm learning to simplify, to take the longer view, so to speak." He shared a look with Megan.

"As a matter of fact, I do have a model," Charlie said. He grabbed another fry, which was deftly snatched from his fingers by Colby. "At first I thought of individual humans as--as electrons writ large--"

Larry choked on his milkshake.

"--being struck by the quanta of unforeseeable events, getting knocked into higher orbits, continually trying to return to their ground states."

"Stick to math, Charles," said Larry mildly.

Charlie humphed. "But now I think we're more like harmonic oscillators, under constant bombardment from chaotic energies, forever looking for that restoring force that might return us to equilibrium."

"That sounds cheerful," said David.

Megan nodded. "So you want to ask me what can knock people permanently out of whack."

Charlie nodded. Megan was always the one who came the closest to getting it. Except maybe Don. Charlie, suddenly reminded of his brother, looked out through the glass walls of the break room. He spotted Don at his desk, head in hands, and the warmth of the break room banter drained from Charlie, leaving him worried and even a little frightened. Charlie looked away to find Megan watching him.

"It is one of life's unfortunate truths that a certain number of us remain trapped in a debilitating state of disequilibrium," said Larry thoughtfully.

"Can't you just say that some people snap and spend the rest of their lives as nut cases?" asked Colby.

"Why, Colby," said Larry with a gentle smile. "I believe I just did."

Megan leaned over the table and laid a hand on Charlie's forearm. "Come on," she said. "No time like the present for that nice chat about psychopathologies you wanted. You do know the way to a girl's heart, Charlie."

He felt himself blush as both Colby and David snickered. Megan's smile was for only one man. "Tonight?" she asked softly.

"I'll be counting the Planck seconds," said Larry, which was nearly Charlie's cue to snort until he saw the way Megan dimpled at the words. The little cosmologist caught himself as he stood, as though he kept forgetting about gravity, but his stride was steady as he walked though the door.

"Planck second? What the hell is that?" asked Colby.

"Larry just means that for him it's going to feel like a very, very, very long time until he sees Megan again."

"Do you talk like that to Amita, Charlie?"

"Uh, no, not really," he said weakly. "She's kind of no-nonsense." With Megan in the room he couldn't exactly say that Amita would only burst out laughing at a statement like Larry's. In a way, she knows too much, he thought a little sadly.

"And I'm not no-nonsense?" Megan stood. "Come on, buster. I'm gonna no-nonsense march your behind to my cube."

Charlie stood with her. "Megan? Can we find an empty conference room or interrogation room or something?"

She studied him, and he had to force himself not to look at Don. "Sure, Charlie. Follow me."

Megan led the way to an unoccupied room. She closed the door behind them and seated herself across the table from him, hands clasped loosely in front of her, eyeing him with a bright, expectant smile.

Charlie stared back, suddenly unsure of how to begin.

"Come on, Charlie," Megan wheedled. "Now that we have a totally unnecessary door between us and a floor full of people who already know what I would be telling you if we truly were going to talk about what you said you wanted to talk about, what are we talking about?"

"Uh--I need a moment to parse that."

"Don?" asked Megan softly.

Charlie looked away. "Yeah, Don."

"Charlie! That means you lied! Good for you!"

"Well, no, not really--I do want to talk to you about psychopathologies--but I only realized it when I needed an excuse. First I want to ask you about Don."

"Ask me what, Charlie?" She frowned. "I don't know what I can tell you. I probably know less than you do." She twisted a silver ring around one slender finger.

"I wanted to ask you about his therapy." 

Megan's eyebrows went up and she raised a hand. "Oh, now you're really getting outside my comfort zone. How would I know anything about his therapy?"

Charlie sighed, frustration mounting. "Can you at least tell if it's doing him any good?"

Megan leaned back in her chair and switched from worrying the ring to gnawing on a thumbnail. "Charlie, I'm a forensic psychologist. I'm not a clinical psychotherapist. I don't think I can help you--"

Charlie turned on the full force of his "kicked puppy" look. "Please, Megan," he said.

She stared at him, her lips pressing tighter and tighter together. Charlie kicked himself. What was he thinking? She was a profiler, she could tell what he was doing--

Megan burst out laughing. "God, Charlie, you should see your face! Do you have to practice that in the mirror?"

"Not anymore," he admitted, and flashed a modest grin.

Still chuckling, Megan shook her head. "I still don't think I can help you, but try more specific questions."

Charlie nodded. "Fair enough." He steepled his fingers together on the table in front of him and marshaled his thoughts. When he spoke, it was with a deliberate detachment. "Here's something that you might be able to explain. I keep hearing about certain of Don's behaviors in two different lights. Sometimes the gallows humor, the bouts of denial, the bottling up of feelings are termed self-destructive, and sometimes they're simply called coping mechanisms. Which are they? They can't be both."

"Yes, they can, Charlie," Megan replied. "They're short-term coping mechanisms, designed to hold unpleasant experiences at bay until such time as the person is strong enough to deal with those experiences and integrate them in as healthy and as non-destructive a manner as possible. But if the short-term coping mechanisms are all the farther that person gets--" She shrugged, her face full of sympathy. "Then yes, they can be pretty self-destructive."

Self-destructive. Not a phrase he wanted to apply to his brother. "Is that why his shrink is trying to get Don to stop using those strategies?"

Megan stared at him, her brow furrowed. "I don't understand, Charlie. Short-term or no, those 'strategies,' as you call them, are called coping mechanisms for a reason. Bradford would never strip Don of such defenses unless other, more successful mechanisms were in place." She shook her head. "And as far as I can tell, that hasn't happened yet."

Charlie swallowed, his carefully cultivated air of detachment gone. He heard Don's hollow voice: I mean, you spend a lot of years purposefully not thinking about stuff, and then somebody wants you to think about stuff... "Megan, keeping in mind that we're talking about Don, if he's taken it into his head that what he's been doing to protect himself all these years is wrong, what do you think he would do?"

Megan's eyes widened. "Okay, now you're scaring me."

"And now you're scaring me." Charlie sucked in a cold breath. "What do I do, Megan? How do I help him?"

She reached for his hand. "The way you've always helped him, Charlie. Be there for him. We'll do the same here."

"Can you--is there any way to mention this to--"

"Bradford?" Her grip on his hand tightened as her gaze turned inward. Finally she sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Charlie, but not yet."

"Why not?"

She met his eyes. "Because right now this is just speculation. I've seen nothing to indicate that he's a danger to himself, and lately he's actually been less of a danger to others." She smiled a rueful smile. "To be honest, this team runs on trust. If he got yanked off field duty because of something I said...well, I'd be looking for another team." Charlie tried to pull away, but Megan's grip tightened. "Not to mention the only way I can help him is if he trusts me. That goes for you, too." She released him and Charlie turned away from her. Megan sighed. "We don't know for sure, Charlie."

"He seems so--sad."

"I know." Her voice echoed that sadness. "He's got a lot of stuff to work through. As much as we hate to think it, Don's not going to be a happy camper for a while, no matter what happens. But give him time, and support him as best you can."

Charlie unaccountably found himself thinking of some of the times Don had not been there to walk him home from school. He realized he was scrubbing his hands together and clenched them into fists. So much for having outgrown feeling powerless. If there was anyone who could take him back to all the old, bad places, it was Don. Stop it. It's not like he means it.

"And watch him."

Charlie looked up.

"Like a hawk. An unobtrusive hawk." Megan winked, and Charlie managed a smile.

A brisk rap at the door, and Don poked his head in. Charlie froze. "You two done in here?"

"I have my assignment." Megan smiled serenely.

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Megan. I really appreciate all the help you're giving me. It's going to make a huge difference in my work." Charlie knew he was beginning to babble, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I'll name a lemma after you or something--ow!" She'd kicked him under the table.

"Too late," Megan said grandly. "Larry already promised me a lemma." She turned to Don. "You want to talk to me?"

"No--yeah, but him first." Don nodded at Charlie. He seemed totally oblivious to their byplay. His fingers where they gripped the door were very white. "I might have something that Charlie can work with."


	3. Chapter 3

Charlie followed Don back to his desk, Megan close behind. "I've been going through interviews collected during this morning's neighborhood canvass," Don explained as they walked. "We got a lot of help from LAPD and covered a lot of ground. Schools, too. When the kids found out about the rat poison a surprising number were willing to give up their stashes." He stepped aside as they reached his cubical and swept a hand toward his desk. "I've been adding the times and locations of buys to the map. The patterns are so obvious that even I can see them."

"That would be a telling statement if you were a stupid person, Don."

Don frowned at his brother. "Just look at the map."

Charlie grinned at Megan, who nodded in approval. But as soon as he turned toward Don's desk he gave a low whistle. The red dots on the map now delineated three ragged but very obvious sets if concentric circles. Someone had been doing some footwork today. "I suspected something like that," Charlie murmured.

"What? What is it--wait a minute. You suspected?"

"You weren't answering your phone, remember?" Charlie traced the patterns with a finger. "You know those differential equations I told you about? We're not working with them any more, but they do have some instructive concepts we can borrow." He smoothed the map down with his palm, traced one of the sets of circles with a finger. "If you plot an ODE on a set of coordinate axes, you'll get what's called a slope field--a set of curves, the slope of which at any one point revealing the rate of change at that point. They can look something like this."

"Then you can tell where he's going to be next."

Charlie grimaced. "Not exactly. These slope fields consist of an infinite number of curves. Which curve he's on is totally dependent upon initial conditions." Don and Megan both stared at him blankly. "You know," said Charlie. "Y sub zero. The origin point."

"The origin is x equals zero, y equals zero. I remember that much."

Charlie shook his head. "Not necessarily."

"Charlie." Don sighed wearily. "English, please."

"Hang on." Charlie fished a telescoping pointer from his messenger bag and pulled it open. He handed it to Don. "Batter up."

Don gaped at him. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Humor me. Batter up."

Muttering something under his breath, Don swung the pointer up over his shoulder and crouched in a fair semblance of a batting stance, given the dress shoes and the suit.

"Think about standing in the batting cage. Picture the balls. Ball after ball comes toward you. You hit some, you miss some. Why? And, of the ones you hit, not all go to the same location. Why not?"

"Well," Don said, "that's obvious, Charlie. Differences in the speed of the ball, its position, its spin, differences in my stance, my timing..." His voice trailed off. "Initial conditions," he said.

Charlie beamed at his brother. "Exactly. All of the different conditions in play at the exact moment you hit that ball--that's the origin point for that particular at bat. That's what determines where the ball goes."

Don glanced at the map as he slid the pointer closed. "So what are the initial conditions for this guy?"

"Megan, I think this is your cue--" Charlie turned to find not only Megan, but David and Colby propped up against the outer wall of Don's cube, watching with interest. He waved Megan forward, but she shook her head. David jerked his chin at the desk and Charlie turned around. Don was still studying the map, worrying at his lower lip as he did so. He grabbed a folder, flipped through several sheets, grabbed another folder and repeated the actions.

He finally sighed and dropped into his desk chair. "The schools," he said simply.

"What?"

"Most of these interviews were conducted at three schools...schools that are essentially at the centers of these circles. He wants to kill kids, he focuses on schools."

"I'm inclined to agree," said Megan. "What surprises me is that he's not restricting his targets to a certain age range."

"Yeah," Don said slowly. He tapped the biggest collection of circles. "That's Cal State Northridge, but the other targets are high schools."

"Northridge Academy High," said Charlie. He ducked his head as everyone turned to look at him. "It's affiliated with Cal State Northridge and directly adjacent to the university's campus." He shrugged at Don's questioning look. "I helped Larry with some Astronomy Day outreach there a few years ago."

"So he is targeting high schools," Megan mused. "I guess the question becomes, which school is next?"

"That's the next initial condition," Charlie said.

Don shook his head. "No, not really. The real initial conditions are whatever's making this guy do what he's doing."

Charlie stared at his brother. "You're absolutely right." He grinned at the other three agents. "Can you say, 'Out of the mouths of babes' when you're talking about your older brother?"

"I don't see why not," said Megan.

"Especially when I'm here to hear it," added Colby.

"All right, you guys, knock it off." But Charlie could tell Don was pleased.

"Seems like whatever has set this guy off, it's a good bet it's drug-related," said David.

Don nodded. "Good thought. So--we start digging. Every drug-related statistic about these schools we can find. Crimes, deaths, levels of use--"

"Don?"

Don turned to Megan. "You got something?"

"Just thinking about the different amounts of poison in the different pills. Do we know yet if the pills were from different batches, or if there's there some flaw in his manufacturing process?"

Don pulled out another folder. "Definitely different batches. Each pill recovered from the vicinity of a school had the same amount of rat poison in it."

"He's making judgements," said Megan. She stared off over their heads and absently tucked an errant lock of hair behind one ear.

"Revenge?" asked Colby.

"More like--punishment."

"Okay, okay, this is good." Don straightened, and Charlie felt his breath catch at the intensity in his brother's eyes, the excitement in his voice. "Colby, I want general stats on all the schools from you. Charlie will need those. Right?" He looked at Charlie, eyebrows raised. Charlie nodded.

Colby mimed a swing. "Outta the park," he said and grinned at Charlie as he headed for his desk.

"David, I want you to concentrate on the first school. Northridge Academy High. Really dig. His punishment was harshest there--look for crimes, deaths--look into the next of kin. Were there any crimes with no convictions that might push someone toward vigilante justice? All we've got is a general description of the guy, but I think LAPD had a sketch artist working with some of the kids. Check into it."

"I'm on it," said David. "Looks like a home run."

"One more baseball-related metaphor and you're all gonna be taking a walk," yelled Don.

"I have a class this afternoon, but I'll stop by tonight to pick up whatever you've got and start correlating it. I should be able to determine the criteria he's using and pick the next school he'll target."

"That's why we keep you on the payroll," said Don.

"Yeah, but you've done most of my work for me already."

Don smiled, a brilliant smile that made Charlie's heart feel lighter. "Gotta keep your billable hours down."

Charlie smiled back. "Oh, and Don?"

"Yeah, Charlie?"

"This time you're going to want to come home with me."

Don frowned. "How so?"

Charlie didn't even try to keep the smugness out of his voice. "Because I'll be where the action is."


	4. Chapter 4

Charlie rubbed his eyes as he waited for his laptop to power down. He had a school name and a search pattern for Don, and it was only--he checked his watch--a little after midnight. Truth be told, he was a bit disappointed, though he wasn't going to tell Don that. The guy didn't even seem to be trying to randomize his actions. Taking each school as a point of origin, he expanded out in a predictable pattern. Almost like he wanted to get caught... Charlie shook his head. He was stepping into Megan's territory. He'd done his bit. Best to leave that conclusion to her.

Laptop under his arm, Charlie slipped into the house. The sight of Don, sprawled on the couch with one forearm over his eyes, was no great surprise. Charlie considered waking his brother and sending him up to bed, but Don seemed so deeply asleep--so still... Charlie found he didn't have the heart. He'd fetch a blanket, though.

As he trotted upstairs he thought back to that afternoon. Don had seemed pleased with their progress and had needed little urging to accompany Charlie home for dinner. He'd been quiet but relaxed during the meal, and as Charlie had described Don's insights into the case to their father, he'd merely tried to stifle an embarrassed smile--instead of stifling Charlie. Maybe, thought Charlie, this will count as a good day.

But when Charlie returned with the comforter he'd stripped from Don's bed, he saw that his brother had shifted. The arm that had covered his eyes was now flung across the back of the couch, fingers white where he gripped the cushions. His breathing had tightened into little gasps, and his eyes--

Two gleaming white crescents showed under the lids, and Charlie could see Don's eyelids spasm as his eyes jerked and stuttered. REM sleep. Don was dreaming.

Nightmare, more like it. So much for the "good day" hypothesis. He thought of the notebook, now up in his room, containing the sequence of expressions he'd thought modeled his brother so well. How to quantify nightmares?

I should wake him. Instead Charlie dropped the blanket and sank to his knees beside the couch, this forbidden glimpse into his brother's inner world too fascinating to give up. Where Charlie flailed and fought his bad dreams, Don lay rigid and still. Even his nightmares are controlled.

Don choked and arched up on the couch. Charlie laid his palm against Don's chest. "Don--"

One hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Charlie bit back a cry. Jesus, Don was strong. Charlie looked up into his brother's wide, blank eyes. "Don, it's me," he whispered. "It's okay, it's me, you're okay."

Don's eyes closed, and when he opened them again, that horrible blankness was gone and Don was back. The grip on Charlie's arm eased. "Charlie?"

"Wow," Charlie said, and laughed a little shakily. "That must have been a doozy."

Don blinked a few more times, then relaxed completely against the couch and scrubbed his face with one hand. "Yeah. It was." He struggled to sit up, and Charlie helped him, feeling quivering muscles under his fingers.

"You want something? Drink of water?"

"No, I'm good." Don didn't look good. He sat with elbows propped on his knees, breathing still irregular. Charlie sat beside him.

"What was it about?"

"Not the usual, that's for sure." Don dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Charlie kept very still. "Not the usual," meant Don might actually talk about it.

"You had Washburn for Junior English, didn't you?"

Charlie blinked. This was...unexpected.

"I had Proctor. Shame. They should have switched us. You'd have liked Proctor--she was very progressive. She let us read sci-fi."

"Don, what does this have to do with your nightmare?"

Don ran a hand through his hair and laughed a shaky laugh. "It was straight out of 'Flowers for Algernon.'"

"'Flowers for Algernon?' Isn't that about the mentally handicapped guy who gets turned into a genius?" A genius named Charlie. Charlie scooted closer to his brother and put a hand on his shoulder. Don didn't shrug it off.

"Yeah. And then lost it all."

"What happened? Did I get turned into an idiot?" Charlie grinned. "I'd think you'd enjoy a dream like that."

"Not everything is about you, Chuck," Don said with a flash of annoyance. "No, you and Larry were a couple of mad scientists and you cornered me in your office. It was very--surreal."

"Larry and I scared you?" Charlie laughed despite the too-tense shoulder under his palm that spoke of how badly the dream had frightened his brother. "What did we do?"

Don blinked a few times and tried to return Charlie's smile. "You had this huge mad-scientist helmet with flashing lights and wires and stuff, and you wanted me to lie down on your bed of nails. You said that if I did you'd put that helmet on me and make me--" Don faltered. "You said you'd make me even smarter than you."

Charlie realized that he was in the middle of a rare occurrence. He had absolutely no idea what to think. "And that was scary?"

"No." Don pulled away and turned to face him. "Remember what happened to the guy in the story?"

"He--" Charlie blinked. "He reverted to his previous mental capacity." He studied Don, sure that somehow he was missing something. "So? You go from being a genius back to being a really, really, really smart guy. I don't understand."

Don shook his head. "I never let you touch me, and I still lost everything." He stared at his hands, all pretense of humor gone, his voice so raw that Charlie hurt to hear it. "Who I am, what I believe in. I could feel it all slipping away."

Charlie huddled miserably on the couch, trapped between a visceral desire to help his brother and no idea of how to do so. "Please, Don," he finally said, "listen. Who I am--what I am--takes nothing away from your considerable abilities and accomplishments. You have to believe me."

Don glanced at Charlie, then turned away, losing himself in the room's shadows. "I appreciate what you're saying," he whispered. "But there are parts of me that I can't just blame on you."


	5. Chapter 5

No Don, no Megan, no David, no Colby. Charlie dropped into a chair in the bullpen and heaved a sigh. At the end of his posted office hours he'd hustled the last student out as quickly as decency allowed and rushed to the FBI offices, sure that Don would be back. But--no Don, no team. And Charlie knew better than to call while his brother was out in the field on something like this.

Maybe their absence was a good sign. Maybe they'd caught the guy and were now simply dealing with red tape and regulations. He hoped so. Anything to give Don a boost.

Charlie's stomach explored knot theory as he thought back over the last fifteen hours. After Don's nightmare he'd finally wrapped the comforter around his silent brother and half-bullied, half-jollied him up the stairs to bed. Then he'd gone to his own room and laid there, listening through the open door for any sounds--sounds, he finally realized, that Don would never make.

That morning, he'd followed his silent, stone-faced brother to the FBI offices to brief the team on his findings. And then, all excuses gone, he'd driven to CalSci to wait. Don had called about one to tell him the team was going hunting that afternoon. Don had sounded normal. He was busy, after all; he had things to do, a murderer to catch.

"Don--" Charlie had said, then hesitated.

"Yeah, buddy?"

Charlie had found himself shaking his head back and forth, without even really knowing why. Words, he'd thought--and not for the first time--are a lousy way to communicate. "Be careful."

"You know it. Call you later."

Charlie fled the bullpen, oppressed by the silence. He settled in Don's cubical, trying to take comfort in the evidence of his brother's existence. He shoved stacks of paper aside to reveal framed photos on the desk--one from their parents' thirtieth anniversary, one of Don and Coop, both in grubby t-shirts and jeans, wide grins contrasting with a week's worth of beard. A small, out-of-focus shot of Charlie, a comical look of dismay and frustration on his face. Charlie leaned forward and studied it more closely. He suddenly realized what the Charlie in the photo had clutched in his right hand. A golf club. Don had somehow taken a picture--probably with his cell phone--of Charlie on the golf course, looking his most ridiculous.

He leaned back and smiled. What a jerk. Of course, if Don found him snooping through the stuff on the desk, "jerk" would probably be the least inflammatory word he'd use. Hell, he's pull out the handcuffs--

Charlie heard voices, familiar voices--about time. He slid the stacks of paper back into place and rolled the chair away from Don's desk. Plausible deniability. He half-stood to peek over the cubical wall as one particular voice rose above the others.

"--actually what I'd like to see on your report is 'Agent did something stupid in pursuit of suspect.'"

Charlie could see all four of them making their way through the maze of cubicles, with Don in front, his face a pale mask. Megan crowded him, her expression angry, and Colby and David, both looking very subdued, brought up the rear.

"Megan, cut him some slack," said David. "Any one of us would have done the same thing, you know that."

Charlie stood and cleared his throat. "What happened?"

Don looked up, and for a split second Charlie saw fear in his eyes. "What the hell are you doing here, Charlie?"

"I thought I'd come and find out what happened. I know this case is important to you..." His voice trailed off as he studied his brother. Don seemed all right, but something was off. Charlie widened his scrutiny to include the others. The only anomaly he could identify was that, while Colby and David were in rolled-up shirtsleeves and unbuttoned collars and Megan in a light, sleeveless sweater, Don had his suit jacket on. Yet he looked just as hot, sweaty, and tired as the others--if not more so. But what could that mean? "What happened?" he repeated quietly.

Megan slammed her purse onto her desk. "Unarmed pursuit of an armed suspect."

Charlie felt his stomach do a lazy flip. "Don?"

His brother shot an angry glance at Megan. "Charlie, it wasn't that big a deal. You were right; we spiraled out from Kennedy High and it didn't take long for us to find the guy. But he was in the middle of a buy, and somehow he made the van before the kid left. He had a knife to a teenaged boy's throat, Charlie. I had to put my gun down."

"Yes--I see." Charlie nodded. This all sounded reasonable, and Don did look okay. He could handle this.

"Our man dragged the kid to the mouth of an ally, shoved him into me, and took off. I followed. I had to."

"Without your gun," snapped Megan.

"Yeah, well, your system isn't the only one with a knife disarm." 

"My knife disarm wouldn't have put the blade under an edge of my vest."

Charlie gasped. "Aw, man, Megan," said Colby, "you're scaring Charlie--"

Charlie lunged toward his brother, reaching for the front of Don's jacket. Don grabbed at his arms, but for once Charlie was faster. He pulled the jacket open, revealing a dark red stain on Don's shirt from under his right armpit to half-way down his side.

"Charlie, it was a scratch," Don said, desperation in his voice. "I got a couple of stitches."

"It was a puncture, and you got lucky."

"Reeves!" Don roared. "That is enough!"

Megan turned and walked out. Charlie barely noticed her go. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off of that big, red, splotch...

Don gently pulled Charlie's hands away from his jacket. The big, red, splotch (blood) vanished and he blinked. "I don't know what's up with Megan," Don said, "but she's really blowing this all out of proportion. Am I right, guys?"

A chorus of agreement from David and Colby.

Charlie nodded. "I understand. Thank you for explaining." He put a hand to his stomach. The lazy flip had turned into a continuous agitation. "Look, I need to--I'll just be a moment--" Charlie bolted for the exit.

He didn't make it to the men's room. Instead, he found a handy wastebasket, then sagged over the drinking fountain next to it to rinse his mouth and splash his face with shaking hands. He could estimate surface areas. There was more blood on Don's shirt this time than when he'd gotten shot.

Charlie heard footsteps. If it was Don, he sure hoped his brother had buttoned up that jacket.

"Charlie?" Megan's gentle voice.

He turned to her and she handed him some paper towels. He smiled gratefully and wiped his face. "So, Meg--" he cleared his throat and tried again. "So, Megan. Should I be scared?"

She shrugged. "I honestly don't know. David was right. Any one of us would have done the exact same thing."

"But you and David and Colby aren't seeing a shrink."

She nodded reluctantly and looked away. "But David and Colby and I aren't seeing a shrink." 

"Megan, what do I do?" His voice shook, but he didn't care. "If he--"

"Charlie?" Don rounded the corner into the foyer and stopped. He looked from Charlie to Megan, then took a deep breath. "Megan, I'm glad you're here. I think I'm taking off, but I'll be back early tomorrow to look at mug shots. Plus I just realized what the guy was saying as he was trying to--to stab me."

Charlie sucked in his breath and Megan gave his arm a comforting squeeze. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." Don shook his head. "He was saying 'I'm sorry.'" Don shot a glance at Charlie. "'I'm sorry.' Over and over."

"He apologized for attacking you?" Megan sounded incredulous.

Don nodded. "Yeah. I figured you'd want to chew on that for a while." Don turned to Charlie. "You need a ride home, buddy? I want--" he stopped and looked down at himself, then back up at Charlie. "I want to get out of these clothes."

Charlie stared at his brother. How could Don stand there so calmly, issue instructions to Megan, talk about his wardrobe, like nothing had happened? Suddenly, anger flooded through Charlie and his hands clenched into fists at his side. "Next time you do something stupid based on information I've given you, I'm done working here. You got that, Don?"

Don's eyes narrowed as he studied his brother, but Charlie held his ground. "That seems reasonable. On one condition."

"What?"

Don's gaze shot from Charlie to Megan and back. "That my opinion about whether or not I did something stupid is given due consideration, as well."

"Don--"

Don thrust his hand out. "Do we have a deal?"

Charlie caught Don's wince and remembered where the knife wound was. Instead of shaking Don's hand, he gave it a gentle squeeze. "Deal." He sighed. "Why don't you stay over again tonight? Dad did laundry. There's got to be some of your shirts in the mix. There's beer," he said, as his brother hesitated.

"Not on top of your pain pills."

Both brothers turned to her. "Megan, go home."

Megan snorted.

"Naw, she's right," said Don. Megan lightly slapped Don's shoulder, and just like that, the tension between them was gone. "But--okay. You have to help me smuggle this shirt into the trash, though."


	6. Chapter 6

The ride home passed in silence. Don let Charlie drive; Charlie wasn't sure whether to be pleased or worried by that. Don kept his face stubbornly turned to the window while Charlie concentrated on the road. He hated driving the SUV. He always felt like old Sir Isaac was watching over his shoulder and whispering horrible things about mass and momenta and inelastic collisions. He'd get Don to talk later. Give him a beer and the remote and let him decompress for a while--

Charlie turned into the driveway of the old Craftsman house and shut off the lights, then the car. He and Don sat for a moment in the dark, listening to the ticking of the cooling engine. Don unbuckled his seat belt and shoulder harness with a muffled curse. "Not a--"

"Word to Dad. I know."

Don chuckled. "And you said you'd never cover my ass."

Charlie winced. "I didn't say never. I never say never," he called after Don as his brother slid out of the car. Don slammed the door shut. Charlie let his head fall back against the seat. "And besides," he whispered to the empty car, "I never meant it."

Their father Alan was sitting in his recliner working on a crossword puzzle, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He eyed his sons over his glasses. "Well, well," he said cheerfully, "You two are looking a bit more ragged than last night. I'd say the cat dragged you in, but we don't have a cat."

"Funny, Dad." Don divested himself of badge and gun, but not jacket. He headed toward the stairs while Charlie stationed himself near the couch, ready to step in as a diversion.

"There's vegetarian lasagna in the fridge," Alan called after him.

Don stopped and turned around. One eyebrow rose, and Charlie, catching that elegant arch, grinned and sank down on the couch. "Vegetarian lasagna? Who are you, and what have you done with our father?"

"Your father got the results of his cholesterol test back today," Alan said imperturbably. "He called me in for a consultation and we decided he's eating a little too much meat."

Charlie scooted closer on the couch, but Don was already past him. "Really? How bad?"

Alan straightened and slowly took his glasses off. He looked from one son to the other. "Not bad at all." He focused on Don. "What's your stock phrase? I'm fine?"

"Or, 'I'm good,'" offered Charlie. Don shot him a look before turning back to his father. Alan laughed and swatted him on the knee with his crossword puzzle book. "I'm fine. Really. I can probably bring it right back down by watching my diet. And what's good for me is good for you."

"But--vegetarian lasagna? Can't you put meat in half of it or something?"

"Charlie--"

"It doesn't have tofu in it, does it?" Don asked suspiciously.

Alan rolled his eyes. "I can only blame myself," he said. "Why don't you take off your jacket, Donnie, and pretend like you're going to relax for a while?"

"Actually, Dad, I had a bit of a pursuit this afternoon and I'm pretty grubby. I'm just going to grab a quick shower first." Charlie watched his brother, wondering what the grudging admiration he felt for Don's smooth delivery meant for his own immortal soul. Damn, but why couldn't he lie like that? Of course, Don wasn't actually lying-- "Don't worry," Don added. "I'll use Charlie's bathroom."

"Hey!"

"Chuck, you're the genius. Why don't you see what you can do with that vegetarian lasagna? I'll be right back down."

"I'm not your slave."

"Damn," said Don. He turned back to the stairs. "Whatever happened to the good old days when I owned you?"

Charlie watched him bound up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. You're the one who decided you didn't want me anymore. He shook his head, shocked. Where had that come from?

"Charlie?"

Charlie turned to find his father eyeing him.

"Is Donnie all right?"

Charlie swallowed. "He's good," he said faintly.

Alan studied him for a moment longer. "It won't kill you to cut your brother a piece of lasagna and put it in the microwave."

"No, I guess not." Charlie sighed. Don's the one who keeps doing stuff that could kill him. He closed his eyes.

"Charlie? Are you all right?"

"Just tired." Tired, and worried, and scared, and--angry. He thought about that, and realized it was true. He could still feel the anger that had swept through him as he'd watched Don pretend nothing had happened. A wild impulse flashed through him to confess to his father. He pictured himself running upstairs for Don's bloody shirt. Exhibit A.

For what crime? Colby and David had both backed up Don, and even Megan hadn't been sure. He remembered Megan's words about trust. He couldn't help Don unless his brother trusted him. He opened his eyes to find his father watching him with a puzzled frown. "Just very tired," he said, and got up to fix the lasagna.

To Charlie's surprise, the evening passed pleasantly enough. He talked Don into one beer ("Dad would be suspicious if you didn't have at least one.") and Don claimed the couch while Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor, his shoulder occasionally bumping Don's leg as if by accident.

Don channel-surfed compulsively while they ate their dinner. Charlie finally took the remote away and left the television on a Spanish-language movie, just to teach his brother a lesson. Don retaliated by translating the dialogue without benefit of any fluency in Spanish, until finally Charlie was laughing so hard he snorted beer and Alan turned the television off.

"I'm going to bed," he announced, eyeing his sons with that fine parental mix of disgust and fondness. "Don't stay up too late. And you--" he turned to Don-- "don't sleep on the couch."

"I think I'm probably too weak from lack of protein to climb the stairs," Don said. Charlie snickered again, then moaned and held his nose.

Alan shook his head. "I find you on the couch in the morning, your alarm will be ice cubes down your shirt."

"Curmudgeon. Isn't that the word, Charlie?"

"Good night, Dad," said Charlie sweetly.

"Yeah. Good night, Dad."

Alan studied his sons until fondness won out. He smiled. "Good night, you two."

To Charlie, it felt like a blanket of silence settled over the living room the instant his father disappeared up the stairs. He picked at the label on his beer bottle, afraid to look around. Then he heard Don pull in what sounded like a suspiciously uneven breath, and Charlie swarmed onto the couch without a thought.

"Don?" His brother had his head back, eyes closed, lips tightened to a grim line. His face was very pale. "Don, are you okay?"

"Yeah, buddy. Just--starting to sting a bit."

Sting a bit. So sayeth Don Eppes, Master of Understatement. "Will you promise me to take another pain pill before you go to bed? You need some sleep."

Silence. Then Don lifted his head and opened his eyes. They were very dark, and they bored straight into Charlie. "If you promise to tell me what the hell's going on."

"What--what do you think is going on?" Charlie didn't have to fake his angry bluster. "Isn't seeing you with your shirt soaked in your own blood enough?"

"Charlie! Jesus! Keep your voice down." Don glanced over his shoulder at the stairs. "I already told you Megan over-reacted."

"Well, then," Charlie said as he swung his legs off the couch, "I guess that's that."

Don stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Talk to me, Charlie."

Charlie sighed and collapsed until he was the one with his head against the back of the couch, his eyes closed. "You know how you trust me with the math?"

Don chuckled. "Yeah. I guess you could put it that way."

"Well..." Charlie took a deep breath, looked at his brother. "I've been trusting you, too, Don. Trusting you to stay alive."

Don's smile changed, then, took on a funny twist. "And have I let you down? Even considering the knife, have I let you down yet?"

"What was that dream last night all about?"

Don tensed. "Don't go there, Charlie."

"Yeah, well, I wish you wouldn't go there, either."

"Charlie." Don sighed, brushed his palm over his hair. "It was just a dream. It was late; I'd just woken up. I was still half out of it. You're going to have to do better than to freak out over a dream."

Charlie looked away, took a deep breath. "What about Jenna Malloy?"

He felt Don shrug beside him. "So? You had it figured out--"

Charlie turned on him. "What you did was stupid, Don. There was a bomb under that car. What if I made a mistake? What if I accidentally used the wrong command? What if I entered a goddamned typo?"

Don looked at him, and Charlie could see the sheer bewilderment on Don's face. It only made him want to throttle his brother more. "When you walked toward that car I was so scared--if something ever happens to you because of information I gave you, I--I--"

Don stopped him with a hand on his forearm. "I hate to break it to you, buddy, but I've been engaging in pretty risky activity based on your tips for a few years, now."

"You think I don't know that?" Charlie whispered.

"You've trusted me this far." Don squeezed Charlie's arm. "Why stop now?"


	7. Chapter 7

Up at an ungodly hour for the second morning in a row. Charlie followed his brother out of the house, all too conscious of the bloody dress shirt stuffed into his messenger bag.

"I'll drive," said Don, and held his hand up for the keys.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Charlie, moved by some perverse impulse, deliberately threw wide, forcing Don to lunge to the right. His face never changed expression, but anger simmered in the look he shot at Charlie. "Sorry," Charlie muttered, and ducked around the passenger side of the SUV. What the hell was that about? Don didn't need to be the one to ask.

"Sorry to make you get up so early," said Don, when Charlie was in and buckled up.

"That's not it--"

"What? Speak up, Charlie."

"I said, no problem." Charlie bit his lip and glanced at his brother.

"I just want to get a jump on those mug shots. And David didn't get a chance to finish his research before we went out yesterday. We almost had him, Charlie."

Sure, until you got stabbed.

"I'm really hoping we'll get a break today--we'll get a name."

Charlie stared out the window.

"Charlie?" Don's voice was quiet now. Charlie leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. "You're really not okay with what happened yesterday, are you."

Charlie closed his eyes. "No, Don, I'm not." Try not okay with what's been going on for the past several months. No, make that years. But Charlie couldn't decide if the anger he felt this time around was better or worse than the fear he was used to. "At least I'm not in the garage."

Don cleared his throat. "I know. And I am very glad of that."

Don's cell rang. "Eppes."

David's voice came over the speakers. "Don. When are you coming in?"

"Me and Charlie are headed in now. Why? You got something for me?"

"Something that must be seen to be believed. You should come check it out, too, Charlie. Although you might find it a bit frightening."

Charlie exchanged a glance with Don. "We're on our way."

Megan was just pulling in when they reached the parking garage. As Don barreled ahead toward the building entrance, Megan shot a look at his back and Charlie shrugged minutely.

Upstairs, they found David at his desk, a bemused look on his face, while Colby stared at a sheet of paper and repeated, "No way," over and over again.

"What way?" asked Don.

Colby peered at Don, then at the sheet, then back up at Don. He shook his head. "No freaking way," he said, and handed the sheet over.

Don sucked in his breath, and Charlie crowded up next to him, peering over his shoulder, Megan close behind. Charlie found himself mimicking Don's sudden intake of air. He was staring at another Don. A longer-haired, softer-faced, smiling Don with glasses, but the resemblance was striking. "You're right, David," he said, his voice husky. "This is scary."

"Very funny, Chuck." Don looked up. "What's the scoop, David?"

David turned to his desk and pulled another sheet to him. "That is Arthur Schwartz, social sciences teacher at Northridge Academy High. At least he was the social sciences teacher, and apparently a pretty popular one, until some one dosed him with a big hit of Ecstasy. LAPD at the time figured it was because he was on a 'drugs are bad' unit in his classes and some kid wanted to make the opposing viewpoint known. But Schwartz had a massive allergic reaction to whatever the pills were cut with and died of anaphylactic shock. No one was ever charged."

Don frowned down at the sheet in his hand. If the man's resemblance to him spooked him at all, he didn't show it. "And he's got--what? A brother?"

"Younger brother." David glanced at Charlie. "Phillip." He handed Don another sheet. Charlie tugged Don's arm down so he could see, too.

Charlie's immediate reaction was relief, while Don nodded in grim satisfaction. "That's him. And no, Charlie, he doesn't look like you." Don read on. "He's quite a bit younger than Art. Chemistry student at Cal State Northridge. That's convenient."

"There are indications in his transcript that he's had to pull out of classes for health problems," said David.

"As in mental?"

"I've been fighting with their administrator at the Student Health Center. I should have something by lunch."

"Good work, David."

"Would you kill someone for Don, Charlie?" asked Colby.

"Colby," said Don wearily.

A sudden chill stole Charlie's breath. He hid his fear--he hoped he hid his fear--with an irritated look. "I don't intend to ever be placed in that position."

"Good answer, Charlie," murmured Don as he continued to scan the report David had handed him.

"I'm much more likely to kill Don myself."

"Bad answer, Chuck."

"Ah--guys?" Megan waggled her fingers. Once sure she had everyone's attention, she left a forefinger extended. "I'd just like to point out one thing. Seeing his dead brother's doppelganger obviously shocked this guy."

"No surprise there," muttered Colby.

"So what's his response going to be? Retreat, or escalation? It's not going to be business as usual, I can guarantee that."

Don's cell phone rang. He snatched it off his belt and glanced at the ID. "Dispatch," he muttered, as he flipped it open. "Eppes." He stiffened, and Charlie watched the hand clutching the cell phone turn white.

Don flipped the phone shut and took a deep breath. "Escalation."

Charlie could feel the tension hum through the agents around him. "What have we got?" David asked quietly.

"Chatsworth High library, five kids, and a nine millimeter semi-automatic."

Colby swore. Megan touched Don's arm. "Message?"

"He sent the librarian out with it. He wants to talk to the people who almost caught him yesterday."

"I'd say that means he wants to talk to you, Don."

"Yeah." Don scrubbed at his mouth with one hand. He looked up. "Let's roll," he said. "See you later, Charlie."

Charlie looked from Don's face to the face of the dead man as the sheet of paper Don had just dropped floated gently onto David's desk. He hadn't lied to Don during their conversation at CalSci. Mathematicians depended on intuition, as well, and Charlie trusted his. His intuitions were generally about numbers, but something about this situation--

He was very afraid for his brother, and he wasn't sure why.

His thoughts went back to the conversation in the break room--god, was it only two days ago? ...one of life's unfortunate truths...when you run into infinities you're generally in trouble...debilitating state of disequilibrium...

"Don! Wait! Let me go with you." Both David and Colby looked at him incredulously. "Strictly as an observer."

Don didn't even break stride as he headed for the elevator. "Don't be stupid, Charlie."

"But--" Thinking furiously, Charlie wove through David and Colby and Megan, and had to consciously refrain from plucking at Don's sleeve. "This is the type of data I need for my Cognitive Emergence Theory, Don. What I was asking Megan for." Don hit the button for the elevator and turned an irritated look on Charlie. "I swear--I'll stay by the car, you won't even know I'm there." Don shifted his gaze to Megan, who shrugged.

"Charlie, do you realize what you're asking? Maybe this stuff doesn't bother you as much anymore, but believe me, if he starts killing those kids, it'll bother you."

And you. "Have I--have I ever mentioned the vast potential of Cognitive Emergence to aid in profiling?"

"You know," Megan said thoughtfully, "he's probably right."

"You won't even know I'm there."

The elevator doors slid open and Charlie ducked halfway inside. Don hesitated, then shook his head sharply. "I strongly advise against this, Charlie. In fact, I think this idea sucks." The doors began to slide closed. Charlie refused to budge.

"I don't have time--" Don slammed his palm against the inside of the elevator above Charlie's head. Charlie jumped. "The first peep out of you, you're in a squad car with a uniform taking you home. Got that?"

"Got it." But Don had already pushed past him.

Charlie let his breath out as David and Colby slipped by, both eyeing him dubiously. Megan leaned in close.

"Who are you going to be observing, Charlie?"

He waved her off and stepped into the elevator after his brother. He couldn't answer her anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

LAPD SWAT was already there, with their own hostage negotiation team. Uniforms manned the barricades set up where, on a normal morning, harried parents dropped their kids off.

Don was out of the SUV almost before the engine died and striding across the asphalt toward what was obviously the command post, Megan right behind him. Charlie climbed out more slowly and followed at a safe distance, a clipboard clutched to his chest. The protective coloration of the academic. Brakes squealed, and Charlie looked over his shoulder to see Colby and David's SUV shuddering to a stop. They hopped out and sprinted past him without acknowledgement. For the first time Charlie began to wonder if this was really a good idea.

Then he heard his brother's voice as he introduced himself and his team to the hostage negotiator. Backup. I'm here for backup. And sometimes backup isn't necessary, but it's still good to have.

Charlie edged in as close as he dared, in time to hear the negotiator introduce himself as Ted Harmon. He was a middle-aged man in riot gear whose salt and pepper hair poked out from under his black baseball cap in untidy tufts.

"What have you got?"

Harmon sighed, and Charlie wondered how long he'd already been here. It was still early, but the day was growing steadily warmer, and the heat radiating off the asphalt didn't help. "Right now, we've got someone who doesn't want to talk to anybody but one of you guys, as near as we can tell."

"We're going to take care of that," Don said. "You've got the floor plan, a list of the kids inside--is everyone else out?"

Harmon nodded as he handed over a clipboard of his own to Don, and gestured to a series of drawings taped to the side of the tactical van. "Floor plan, ventilation system, electrical system. Thank god he made his move early. There were hardly any students there yet--just a few whose parents have early shifts. I guess Chatsworth has a before-school program as well as an after-school program. "

"And the library is--"

"Here." Harmon indicated a room on the first drawing. "And, there." He swept an arm towards the building before them. Charlie turned and raised his hand to shade his eyes. A bank of ten-foot-high windows caught the morning sun and flashed it back to him, so like code his mind immediately itched to decrypt it.

"Bet your snipers are thrilled," said Don.

"We've got a couple of guys with better angles. Windows are still coated though. Makes it just a bit tougher, but nothing we can't handle--"

A shrill ringing split the morning calm and everyone stopped. Harmon, his finger hovering over the connect button, looked at Don. "He must have noticed the new arrivals. You ready, Eppes?"

"Megan? How do you suggest we play this?"

Megan shrugged helplessly. "He's got kids, Don."

"Good cop it is." Don nodded, and Harmon's finger jabbed down. "Phil, this is Agent Eppes." Silence. "Phil, can you hear me?"

"How--how do you know my name?" A thick voice, harsh with fear and exhaustion, but--young, Charlie thought.

"We met yesterday," Don said gently. "You wanted to speak to me?"

A choked off sob that turned into a wracking cough. "If you found me, you found Art."

"Yes, we did," said Don. Compassion warmed his voice. "I'm sorry for what happened to Art. We didn't protect him very well, and we didn't serve you very well after his death, either. I'd like you to give us another chance to help you. But you have to let the kids go first."

"I--no! What do you mean, another chance to help me?"

"We can reopen the case, find out who killed your brother, Phil."

Charlie listened to Don, fascinated and a little queasy. Don used that voice on him sometimes after an argument, or when he wouldn't come in from the garage. He noticed Megan standing with her eyes closed, listening so hard it seemed like she must be letting the man's words replace her own thoughts.

"It's too late for that," Phil snapped. "How would you like it if--you don't know what it's like--"

"Easy, Phil," Don said soothingly. "I have a brother, and I can tell you if something happened to him I'd go nuts."

Charlie stared at Don while the agents all listened to the silence on the line.

"You have a brother?" The voice quavered. "Is he your big brother?"

"No, I'm the big brother--"

Megan's eyes flew open and she dragged her forefinger across her throat.

"But that doesn't really matter," said Don. "Those kids there all have brothers, and if they don't have brothers they have sisters, and if they don't have sisters they have moms and dads and grandparents and cousins--they haven't hurt you, Phil. Let them go and then let's you and me talk about how we can help you."

At first Charlie thought the line had fallen silent again, but slowly the sound of sobs grew more distinct. "Somebody," gasped Phil, "somebody has to learn what it feels like."

"Phil, we know and we want to help you--"

"Shut up!"

Don fell silent. He exchanged a look with Megan. She worried her lower lip between her teeth.

"You come here. Then I'll let the kids go."

Charlie's stomach twisted and he clapped a hand to his mouth.

"Phil, that's not such a good idea--"

"That's the deal. You come here, I'll let the kids go."

Don straightened, his face impassive. "Give me a few minutes."

"Don't take too long. I don't need all of these kids."

The line went dead.

"God, Don, I'm sorry. I starting realizing how family tied in, but--"

Don held up a hand. "Megan, don't. We didn't exactly have time to analyze every word." He looked at each member of his team. "Well, what do you think?"

"It's that one sentence," Megan said. "That one sentence scares me."

"Somebody has to learn what it feels like," said David softly. 

Megan nodded. "Exactly." She turned to Don. "You're the big brother. You even look like his brother, for Christ's sake. How else to truly communicate his pain and sorrow than to take you away from your loved ones?"

Don turned to face the school and scrubbed at his face. "Options?"

"Call him back, try to get him to calm down. But I don't think he's looking to get out of there alive. He's a man who is desperate to be heard, is willing to kill and die to be heard, and he thinks he's found the perfect message."

Don turned back and took a deep breath. His face remained impassive as his gaze moved from Megan to David to Colby, studying them, measuring them. Then he slowly, deliberately, looked at Charlie. His mouth tightened and he swallowed, and Charlie was filled with a wild hope that Don would retreat from this insane plan, shake his head, say, "There must be some other option."

Don looked away, and Charlie nearly cried out from the loss.

"Let's do it, people," Don said.

Charlie stared at him, stunned. A roaring filled his ears, drowning out Don's quick instructions to his team. As they scattered, Charlie threw himself forward. "Wait--Don? Don! You heard what Megan said. The probability that this guy wants to kill you approaches unity! Unity, Don. Do you understand what that means?"

Don grabbed his arm and turned him around, away from the school, away from the sight of men and women in body armor checking their weapons, the bullet-proof shields, the tear gas canisters. "You need to go home, Charlie. I'm serious. You can't be here for this."

"Don--" He knew that remote, focused look on his brother's face. Agent Eppes was in charge.

"Hernandez." Don motioned to a junior agent Charlie barely recognized.

Hernandez trotted up. "Sir?"

"I'm sure you recognize Professor Eppes. He's a very valuable asset to this organization and you will escort him to the barricades and personally hand him over to the safe-keeping of a uniform with express instructions to take him home. No where else. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," said Hernandez. She eyed Charlie a little dubiously and cleared her throat. "Professor?" She took his arm where Don had been holding him and Charlie jerked away. He hadn't even felt Don let go--

He saw his bother striding toward the tactical van. "Don," he cried. "You can't do this! What about m--what about Dad?"

Don stopped. Charlie could tell from his hunched shoulders and clenched fists that he was fighting for control, and when he turned around Charlie recoiled, stumbling backwards until he slammed into one of the bureau's SUVs. Don's face was white and totally expressionless, but his eyes were alive with rage.

He didn't speak until he stood directly before Charlie. "Do not throw Dad in my face when I am doing my job," he said, his voice quiet, almost conversational. "Do you understand me?"

Charlie dragged in a shuddering breath, knowing that the only thing he would ever fear more than seeing his brother like this would be seeing his brother walk across the street and disappear into that school. "I understand you're about to get killed. That's what I understand."

Don closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them the terrible anger was gone, but they were still remote, cold. "Listen, Charlie," he said quietly. "I don't have much time, so I need you to listen, and listen carefully."

Charlie nodded. As long as Don was in front of him, talking, Don was not--

"Charlie, when we were kids, you took from me."

Charlie's attentions snapped back to Don. "What--"

"You took from me, Charlie. Just about everything. You took Mom, you took Dad. You took choices, options, chances, the possibility of ever being anything but the genius kid's older brother."

Charlie could say nothing, could only stare into his brother's implacable face.

"It pissed me off, Charlie. I resented the hell out of it. But I never hated you. You know why?"

Charlie swallowed, shook his head.

Don smiled, almost gently. "Because you had no clue what you were doing to me. Now you do, Charlie. Now you do. And you've got to stop." He took a step back and Charlie followed.

"That's how it is?" Charlie tried to match the steadiness of Don's voice, but he was failing miserably. He was failing Don. "I let you get killed, or you hate me for the rest of your life?"

Don shook his head. "You still don't get it. That's not how it is, because you don't get a choice."

Don's words slammed into him and Charlie choked back a sob. Tears blurred his vision. He felt his brother's hand touch his face. "This isn't about you, Charlie, or Dad. It's about me, and who I am, and what I do, and right now what I'm going to do is go into that building and get five kids away from a nut with a gun."

Charlie dragged a sleeve across his eyes and blinked furiously, trying to clear them so he could see into his brother's face, catch his brother's eyes, but Don wasn't even looking at him. Don was staring over his shoulder at the school, and somehow Charlie knew that expression--

It hit him, and he had to fight to keep from gagging. Don was studying the scene with the same single-minded intensity Charlie felt while worrying at a fascinating proof. Big brother Donnie was staring at his very own chalkboard. Charlie dragged in a sobbing breath. "Donnie, no," he choked, but Don had turned away, Don was running, Don was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

"Professor Eppes?" Hernandez laid a hand on his shoulder, and Charlie jerked away.

"Don't touch me!" He wanted to scream, but it came out in a hoarse whisper. He couldn't breathe, that was why; he really couldn't breathe. Don had taken all the air with him.

"Hernandez, what are you doing?" Megan's voice. Megan! Megan would know what to do. Megan could talk Don out of this stupid, stupid plan-- He turned to her, but she was still talking to Hernandez as she fiddled with a headset, getting it comfortably seated, tapping on the mouthpiece. "Get your stuff and report to Sinclair. Agent Eppes is going in as soon as I get him prepped and we need everyone in position."

Charlie froze. Hernandez must have given some significant look, because Megan looked at him and her expression softened. "Go," she said. "I'll deal with this." Hernandez hurried off.

Megan was not going to help. Charlie tried to back away from her but he was still trapped against the car. He wrapped his arms tightly across his stomach and looked down. He clenched his fists, his jaw. Megan sighed.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Charlie. This is very dangerous." She laid a hand on his arm and he stiffened. He would not look at her. He would not. "But we're not helpless here. We have ways of dealing with this kind of situation. You have to trust us. We'll get Don out."

We'll get Don out. Not, We'll keep Don safe. No promises there. And now Charlie did pull away, standing with his back to her. He struggled to breathe.

"Go home, Charlie." Megan's voice was firm, almost hard. "Do you understand me? That is a direct order."

Charlie spun around as anger flooded him, giving him breath and voice, but he stopped when he saw the anguish on Megan's face.

"Just go," she whispered. "Please."

He nodded, and then Megan left him, too.

Charlie tried to obey her order, he really did. He'd actually taken three steps away--away from his brother--when he stopped. He was walking away from Don. He couldn't do it.

But--he couldn't watch, either.

Charlie stumbled around the far side of the SUV and shoved himself hard up against the warm metal. The windows were smoked. No one would notice him. But he could still hear. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands.

The command post had been set up about fifteen feet from where he huddled against the side of the car, and he could hear Colby's drawl--something about sniper placement.

Yes, yes. Snipers. Good.

Then David's warm rumble: "Hernandez, Johnson, you're with me. White, Chen, you're with Agent Monroe. Do not let yourself be seen. At this point, the element of surprise is our most valuable asset. Any questions?" Silence. "All right, let's do it. And I don't need to remind you how much Agent Eppes is counting on us."

Charlie nodded. Good. Good. Don't let them forget the stakes. Such very high stakes-- He felt a sudden, monstrous pressure in his chest. The door to the tactical van slammed shut, he heard his brother's voice, and suddenly he could breathe again. Funny how that worked.

"Status?"

"Snipers are in position, Don." A moment of silence. "And so are David and Craig. We're ready."

"Good." Suddenly Charlie couldn't stand it any longer. He had to see his brother. He slid toward the front of the SUV, peered around the windshield. Don was standing with Megan and Colby, tugging at the straps of a Kevlar vest. He pulled a voluminous windbreaker on, concealing the body armor. His face--he looked so calm. How could he look so calm?

"Remember what I told you," said Megan. "This guy wants to take you from us like his brother was taken from him. He's picked you because of your physical resemblance, but it's got to stop there. If he tries to establish any points of commonality between you and his brother, shoot him down. Not in a confrontational manner, but he has to know that you're not what he's looking for. It's the best way to throw him off."

"I've got it, Megan."

"You don't have to do this--"

"I know, Megan. I know. But--yeah, I do have to do this."

"Don?" Colby, his voice husky. "Don't worry. We've got you."

"Yeah, Colby, I know that, too. Thanks." Don smiled.

Charlie, watching, felt something break inside him. In that instant, his brother's face was like the most beautiful proof Charlie could imagine, the most elegant algorithm he could devise. His brother's face was--was the answer to--

Don turned away.

Charlie's knees buckled, and he slid bonelessly down the side of the car and slumped against the tire. He drew his knees up tight and wrapped his arms around them, buried his face in his thighs. And he listened.

"Phil." Don's voice, amplified. "I'd like to come in and talk to you now. As you can see, I'm taking off all my weapons."

"No wires." A hoarse shout from the doorway across the lawn.

"He's up at the door." Megan. "Anybody got a shot?"

"No, he's using one of the kids as a shield and nobody can get a good enough angle on him to get past her."

"Shit."

"No wires," Don yelled back, his voice calm, almost companionable. "Let the kids go, and it'll just be you and me. You can talk about whatever you want."

Charlie heard a choked cry. A girl. "Get over here first."

"That's--that's the plan." Don, quick, trying not to sound too urgent. "No reason to hurt her." Somewhere along the line he'd dropped the bullhorn--his voice sounded fainter, farther away.

"Schwartz is going to have to shove Trish out of the way before he grabs Don. Maybe then--"

"Megan, if someone can get a clean, safe shot, they'll take it."

Another scream, sharper this time, terrified, and the popping sound of bullets. Charlie flinched, letting go of his knees to wrap his arms over his head. This could not be happening. This could not be happening--

"He's in! Get the girl. Go! Go!" Charlie realized he could still hear screaming, then the sound of heavy boots against pavement. Two agents must have run out to grab her. They'd have shields. Don had nothing.

A gurney rattled past, and Charlie shut out the sound. Muffled sobs, soothing voices, they held no meaning for him. He listened for Megan as he slowly, painstakingly built an image of Don's face in his mind.

"What's going on, Colby? Talk to me."

"The kids. They're all standing up, moving toward the door. He did it. Don did it."

"Hang on--hang on--two--three--four--that's it. They're all out. Go!"

"Megan, he's moving. He's got Don and he's moving."

"Who's--"

"There is no goddamned shot."

"Sinclair, Monroe, go," Megan cried.

And inside the building, the muffled sound of a single gunshot. The image of Don's face Charlie held in his mind shattered.

Charlie screamed, he knew he did, but no one heard him over the sound of breaking glass, the dull thumps of gas canisters, the cries. "Agent down," yelled Megan. "All units, go, go!"

Charlie let the chaos wash over him as he searched desperately in his mind for the pieces of his brother's shattered image. He gathered them, painstakingly sorted and cataloged them, and began to put them back together.

But they no longer seemed to fit; they'd been deformed by some shock. He'd have to analyze the deformations, figure out how to reverse the process...it shouldn't be too difficult. He needed to find the point of impact, though, so he could determine how the force had propagated--

There. He had it. In his mind was the image of Don's face, complete with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

Charlie hung onto the tire of the SUV and retched.

He huddled there, shivering, with no conception of the passage of time. Against his will, words formed in his mind. Don's (dead) gone...yes, gone. Again.

Don left again.

The sounds of chaos continued to sweep over him, growing oddly monotonous. Yelling, the sounds of footsteps. A helicopter hovered above, very loud. He had no idea how long it had been there.

A sudden hoarse cry. "Charlie?" His name, oddly muffled, then sounds of a struggle and the voice spoke again, clearer. "Charlie, why are you here?" Coughing.

"Charlie?" Charlie recognized this voice. Megan. "Oh, god, you were supposed to leave."

"Let me--" A hoarse growl. "Will you let me up?"

A worried drawl. "Agent, this isn't a good idea...But since when has anyone listened to me?"

Charlie heard shuffling footsteps, smelled an acrid stench that might have brought tears to his eyes if they weren't already there. Felt arms go around him. "No," he whispered. "You left."

"Charlie, just look at me, I'm okay--"

"Get away," he screamed. "It was your choice!" He tried to pull back, but the arms only drew him closer. He fought then, writhing in his brother's grip. He made a fist, swung. Connected.

Don cried out and the arms were gone. Charlie felt a hand on his collar then, jerking him upright. He felt himself swing around, and his eyes popped open in time for him to catch himself against the hood of the SUV. He slumped over it.

"Colby!" Don, coughing again.

The hood was warm against his cheek, and Charlie let himself go limp.

"Did you get your data, Professor?" Colby hissed. "Do you know now why people snap?"

"Colby, leave him alone. That's an order! Charlie--"

"Look, Agent." The drawling voice. "If you want a punctured lung to go with those ribs, another round with your friend should do it. Or you can get back on the gurney."

"Don." David's calm voice, and Charlie closed his eyes again. "Go ahead. I'll take Charlie with me to get your dad. We'll meet you at the hospital."

"Yeah. Okay. See you--see you pretty soon, okay, buddy?" That voice, so hoarse, so anguished. It really didn't sound like his brother. How could it? Don was gone. He'd made his choice. He'd walked away. Charlie felt David's hand on his shoulder, but he preferred to stay right where he was. The hood of the car felt so warm. He imagined its heat as electromagnetic radiation, waves buzzing through his bones, particles bouncing against his skin. He pictured a shimmer of infrared spreading across the spectrum, turning into static that filled his mind with blessed noise, drowning out all thought.


	10. Chapter 10

Charlie usually stayed away from Bach. Bach and mathematicians? Puh-leeze. Too stereotypical. Listz and Shubert were too wimpy, while Mozart demanded that he actually listen to the music.

Charlie usually went with one of the Russians--composing his proofs while sunk deep within a gorgeous soundscape, as though the music was a Faberge egg and his proofs were rare jewels, to be revealed upon opening.

Today, though, he listened to Wagner. Let the mad German scream for him.

Charlie himself felt good. He felt sharp. He felt on. Thoughts flowed down his arm and spewed out the tips of his fingers, white chalk on black chalkboard. He'd had to tell his dad that it wasn't that damned complexity class problem; everybody always freaked when that was brought up, whispering, "P vs NP," like it was the name of a dybbuk, like it owned his soul. But no polynomial time for him; he was after something bigger. He had downloaded everything by Witten, Polchinski, Maldacena, everything as far back and Nambu and Susskind. He was going to find the one Calabi-Yau manifold that held the paltry four dimensions of perceived reality, even if he had to search through all ten to the 500th of them. And when he found it, he would use it as a basis of translation, look down upon this little universe, and see--everything...

He couldn't wait to tell Larry.

The music cut out, but he didn't need it any longer. What was music but math, anyway? Wagner had nothing on him.

The music wasn't quite gone. There was an annoying remnant of noise, a blip of sound he heard over and over again. It reminded him of a convergent series, each added term dragging him closer to some final limit that he recognized, dragging him closer to--

"Charlie."

Charlie turned, ripped off his headphones. Megan stood in the door, hugging herself, staring at him. He shook himself as his mind made the unwanted shift back to human interactions. Now he could see that she looked angry, and a little frightened.

"I'm--busy, Megan. Very busy. I'd love to talk to you, but I'm afraid I have important work--"

"You mean this garbage?"

Charlie stared at her, shocked.

"That's what Larry called it. I'm inclined to believe him."

"I--" Charlie swallowed. "Larry? Larry was here?"

"We stopped at Don's apartment." Megan stepped into the garage, her voice cool and pitiless. "Don asked us to check on you. Larry couldn't stand to be in here any longer. It hurt him too much see you like this."

Charlie turned slowly around and stepped back, scanning the chalkboards. Garbage?

"Hell of a thing to punish your brother for," Megan said. "Saving the lives of five kids."

Charlie staggered back from the chalkboards until he stumbled against the edge of the couch and dropped onto it. "You don't understand." He covered his face with his hands. He couldn't bear to look at the chalkboards any longer, but Megan's face wasn't much of an alternative. Neither was the image that rose up to greet him in the darkness. He jerked upright. Even Megan's face was preferable to that. "It's--it's not just numbers that get stuck in my head. Right now Don's dead body is in there. What am I supposed to do with it?"

Her face softened as she came around the couch and sat next to him. "Seems like the logical response would be to replace the image of your brother's dead body with the image of his living one."

"But for how much longer?"

"For today." Megan took his hand, her gentle touch and gentle tone threatening to breech the barriers of his anger. "You have him for today, and you get down on your knees and give thanks that you've got that much. You don't ask about tomorrow. You never ask about tomorrow." She let go of his hand to scrub at her face, and he glanced at her, frightened by the tears on her cheeks. "What do you think Don does? What do you think any of us do?"

"I can't go through this again."

"Charlie--"

"No. This is the third time in as many months that he's put himself in a dangerous situation. Whether he's consciously doing it or not, this is a trend I can't watch continue. I'd rather he be dead now so I can just get it over with."

"Charlie." She sighed. "How long have you been working with Don? Longer than I have, certainly. What's happened to you?"

"What--what do you mean?"

"Anymore you just waltz in, do your math tricks, and take your bows. When did you stop learning from him?"

Charlie winced. "What's my lesson here?"

"Have you ever known Don to quit?"

Charlie studied her. "What--what are you saying, Megan?"

She shook her head and stood. "You need to talk to your brother. That is a direct order. You disobeyed the last one; don't disobey this."


	11. Chapter 11

The drive passed in a blur. By the time Charlie stood in front of Don's apartment, he couldn't honestly say he remembered any of it. It seemed like just moments ago he'd been huddled on the couch in the garage, trying to decide if he had the courage to follow Megan's order, and now here he stood, fist raised, unable to bring it down against the door.

He closed his eyes, and without his logic to protect him he again saw the image of Don that he'd constructed in his mind--the image of Don with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Megan was right. He couldn't live with that. He couldn't bear to have it in his head anymore, for it to be the last image of his brother that he would hold in his mind. He brought his fist sharply down, and then he was pounding on the door, desperate to get in.

"Hey, hey, hold your horses, Dad, I'm coming." Don's voice. Don's voice. "That didn't take long." Locks and latches rattling, the door swinging open. "Did you forget somethi--Charlie."

Charlie froze, fist still raised, and drank in the sight of his brother. He looks tired he looks sad his cheek is bruised he looks-- A strange roaring built in his head, and darkness crept around the edges of his vision. He forced it back; he needed to see. He reached out and trailed his fingertips gently along Don's cheek.

Don blinked, eyes suddenly over-bright. He caught Charlie's hand in a warm grip. "Hey. I'm right here, buddy. I'm okay."

The darkness swept over Charlie, a cold black tide, and he felt his knees give way. "Whoa--" Strong arms caught him. Then he was on the couch, head between his knees, dragging in air, Don gripping his shoulders as though to forcibly hold him together. An image hit him, layer upon layer of sense memory. How many times in his life had those arms held him, given him comfort, kept him safe? No mere number could ever express that...

Charlie sat up and blindly reached for his brother. Don's arms wrapped tight around him as his tears began to fall.


	12. Chapter 12

Charlie awoke slowly, his thoughts muzzy, his body Sunday-morning heavy. He held on for as long as he could to the sweetness of sleep, but as his mind cleared and he started to take inventory, the feeling that this wasn't just a lazy morning grew. His eyes felt swollen and gritty, his chest heavy, and his right hand ached as he flexed it. He made a loose fist and winced. Like he'd been hitting something--

Don's door. Charlie's eyelids popped open. He scanned the room, taking in the unfamiliar furniture, the stark walls gleaming a ghostly gray in the faint illumination that bled in through the blinds. He'd somehow made it to Don's apartment and--he winced. Apparently had hysterics or something. And now he was in Don's bed.

He shoved the comforter aside and pushed himself gingerly into a sitting position. His head was a little light, but the growling in his stomach, coupled with the realization that he couldn't remember when he'd eaten his last meal, presented an acceptable explanation. His behavior--he shied away from the memory of sobbing in his brother's arms. He could not go through this again.

Charlie shoved a hand into his hair. Megan had said to only give thanks for today, but now that he'd accepted Don's presence among the living he had time to work on strategies for keeping Don there.

Charlie swung his legs out of bed. He was still in his boxers and t-shirt; a folded pair of sweat pants sat on the very end of the bed and he dragged them on. They were too long, but he pulled them higher, tightened the drawstring.

Charlie padded to the door and hesitated with his hand on the knob. He prodded his thoughts, examining them like a dentist prods a tooth. The anger that had swept through him at the hostage site, that had fueled his stint in the garage, was still there.

Charlie hesitated, then shrugged. He couldn't very well just sneak out and go sulk somewhere. Sooner or later, he had to talk to Don. He opened the bedroom door, and immediately heard his brother's voice.

Don was in the kitchen, back to the hallway, cell phone propped between ear and shoulder as he washed dishes. Charlie kept silent, content for the moment to watch.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing dishes, Dad. I just wanted you to feel guilty." Don chuckled, and Charlie could swear he felt the sound, warm like sunlight on his face. "Naw, I just checked on him. He's still doing the Sleeping Beauty bit. He needs a haircut."

Don grabbed a dishtowel and dried the bowl he'd just washed, then opened the cabinet next to the sink and reached up to put the bowl away. The hem of his t-shirt rode up, and Charlie saw the bruise, two creeping tendrils of black wrapping around the left side of Don's body. Charlie's breath caught in the back of his throat. He wondered what the bruise would look like from the front, and his fragile sense of equilibrium shifted. "Still on my bed...Don't be ridiculous. I wasn't about to bail on him just so I could sleep in a bed. What if he woke up and I wasn't here? Besides, me and the couch go way back."

Don shoved the bowl onto the top shelf, but hissed as he stepped back, pressing his arm into his side. Charlie's anger awoke with the sound. Don had nearly died--had done his level best to get himself killed.

"What? No, I didn't say anything...of course I'm glad he came, but Dad--you saw him. He fell apart. Scared the crap out of me. I honestly don't know what to do."

"You could make me breakfast," Charlie rasped.

Don spun around, his eyes widening. He smiled, but Charlie could see something else. Concern? Wariness? Fear? And Charlie hadn't dreamed that bruise on his cheekbone.

Don waved Charlie toward a chair and pointed at the coffee pot. Tea? Charlie mouthed as he pulled the chair away from the cheap Formica dinette table and sank into it, and Don rolled his eyes. "Look, Dad, gotta go. Sleeping Beauty awakes...oh, now, that's just gross. We'll be over in a couple of hours, okay?"

Charlie watched as Don lifted his head and shrugged the cell phone into his waiting hand. Don winced, rolling his head from side to side to relieve the crick that had developed in his neck. "You should stop doing that," Charlie said mildly. "You could hurt yourself."

Don glanced at him. "Yeah, well, there's a lot of stuff I should stop doing." They stared at each other in silence. Don shook himself. "Tea, you said?"

"If you don't have any, that's okay."

"No, I think I do--I'll just have to nuke a mug of water for you--" Don bustled about, opening cabinets, rummaging through their contents, and each time he reached up that damned bruise played peekaboo with Charlie until he wanted to scream.

"Don, stop," he finally snapped. "I don't want tea, okay?"

Don, still on tip-toe, froze. He slowly lowered his weight to the floor, dropped his arms to his sides, and stood for a moment. Charlie could hear his breathing from across the room. When he turned, his features were completely schooled. "What's wrong, Charlie?"

"Nothing. I just don't want tea."

"Charlie--"

"Lift up your damned shirt."

Don blinked. He looked down at his chest, up at Charlie. Then he took the hem of his t-shirt in both hands and slowly raised it.

Charlie bit his lip, eyes on Don's face, until his peripheral vision told him Don's hands had stopped moving. He swallowed and looked down. He hissed in shock.

The bruise was huge, a thick and shiny black, covering most of the left side of Don's abdomen.

"That's what Kevlar is for," Don said quietly. "It's just big because it was such close range. The vest distributed the force of the impact--"

"Shut up." Charlie looked away, raised shaking hands to his face. He heard chair legs scrape against the linoleum, felt Don settle heavily beside him.

"Charlie--" A touch on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. The chair next to him creaked as Don shoved himself back. "Okay. Fine. Charlie, I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am that you were there and saw all that. But you were told to leave, multiple times. By me, by Megan."

Charlie lowered his hands to his lap, but didn't look up from them. How could Don have ever expected him to leave--

"The thing is, buddy, you have got to figure out a way to be okay with my job. Do you really think I can function if every time I'm about to go into a situation of some kind I start thinking, 'God, gotta be careful. If something happens, Charlie will freak.'? Do you?"

Charlie glanced up at Don. Don was studying him, brow furrowed. He didn't seem angry, exactly, just in full-on Big Brother mode--Charlie's eyes were drawn again to the bruise on Don's cheek. And where did that come from? The butt of a gun? "Just doing your job," he said, not even trying to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

"As a matter of fact, I was. So was my team. You may have decided that I'm incompetent, but I'd sure like to see a little respect for my team."

"I never said you're incompetent. That's not--that's not it--" He shook his head, aware of Don's gaze, aware of the silence stretching out, but still unable to say the words.

Don blew out a sharp, impatient breath and looked away. "I don't think we're gonna get anywhere with this right now." He slapped Charlie's knee and rose. "Look, you hungry? You must be starving."

"I said you could feed me breakfast," Charlie muttered. God, he sounded so petulant. Wherever Big Brother Don went, Little Brother Charlie was sure to follow.

"Late lunch is more like it." And yes, the light through the kitchen window wasn't the thin clear light of morning, it was the thick gold of afternoon. He stretched out one bare foot into a patch warming a square of the kitchen floor and thought about the afternoon--was it only a week ago?--that Don had brought this case to him.

He watched Don, who had gone back to bustling. That and not looking at him. "I want breakfast."

"Well, I'm not making an omelet or anything. Dad's gonna want to feed us again in a couple of hours. Bowl of cereal?"

"That's fine."

"And I can find the tea if you'll just be patient." Don deposited a box of bran flakes and a bowl on the table in front of him, then turned to the refrigerator.

Charlie twirled the bowl once around before picking up the cereal box. "Did you really join the FBI because I'm an irresponsible coward?"

"What?" Don spun around so fast that milk slopped out of the open container. "Shi-- Charlie, what has gotten into you?"

"Better watch that. Inertia and all."

"I know--" Don slammed the carton down on the table next to Charlie and went to the sink for a rag. He dropped to his knees in front of the spill, his breath catching, and Charlie realized it must hurt. He turned away, focusing on retrieving the sugar bowl, on pouring the milk. Don stood and threw the rag into the sink.

"I don't have a spoon."

Don closed his eyes. His fists clenched. Charlie recognized the signs that meant he'd pushed his brother a little too far. But this was nothing. Don had just pushed Charlie as far as he could go and still get back.

When Don opened his eyes, the anger Charlie had expected wasn't there. Instead, he looked sad, and tired, and--hopeless. He pulled a spoon out of the dish strainer, dried it on his t-shirt, and tossed it on the table. Charlie jumped when it hit. "Eat your cereal," Don said, and turned away. He stood at the kitchen window, maybe looking outside, maybe not looking at anything. Charlie picked up the spoon and pushed the cereal around. He didn't have much of an appetite anymore.

"No," Don said softly.

"What?"

"No, I'm not an FBI agent because you're an irresponsible coward. I'm an FBI agent because I chose to be. For myself." He turned around and rested his hips against the edge of the sink. "But I can't say that knowing it was something you would never be able to do had no bearing on my decision."

"I see." The cereal was getting soggy. Charlie hated soggy cereal.

"At that point in my life, I needed something of my own. That's not so hard to understand, is it?"

"I guess not."

"I mean, you had math. You've had math your whole life. And I've had--" Don stopped, the look on his face one of a man standing on a precipice.

"Being the genius kid's older brother."

Don said nothing.

"Well, you were right about one thing. I'd never be able to do what you do."

The silence stretched out. Unnerved, Charlie looked up from the cereal bowl. Don was watching him with an expression on his face that Charlie had never seen before. "Don?"

"Actually, Charlie, you've been showing me lately that you can do a lot of it."

Charlie bit his bottom lip and turned to face his brother, soggy cereal forgotten. "Is that why you're raising the stakes?"

Don looked away, tried to shake off the mood, but Charlie stood to face him. He felt like he was walking along the same precipice, straight towards Don, and he wanted to push him off. "How much of what you do now is to prove you're better at dying than I am?"

Don's head snapped around and he stared at Charlie, open-mouthed, as understanding flooded his face. He grabbed Charlie by the shoulders. "Is that what all this is about? You think I have some kind of a death wish or something? Charlie, no."

Anger vanished and fear returned. Charlie felt hot tears sting his eyes. "First there was the bomb and then there was the knife and then there was the whole hostage thing and you've been so--" he choked-- "so sad. I don't know what that shrink is doing to you--"

"Sit, buddy." The gentle pressure of Don's palms on his shoulders grew more insistent and Charlie dropped back into his seat. Don sat next to him and took his hand. Startled, Charlie glanced down, then sat very still, afraid that if he so much as twitched, Don would let go.

"Charlie?" Don spoke gently, and Charlie looked up into his brother's drawn, tired face. But his brown eyes were clear, and filled with a peace Charlie hadn't seen in far too long. "Look, maybe I've been pushing things a little too hard for a while, and I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Charlie whispered.

Don shrugged and stared past Charlie, as though looking for the right words in his bowl of soggy cereal. "Yeah. I'm--I'm sorry. You know and I know that things have been bad lately. Bad enough so that it starts to feel like everything about my job is death and horror. But--when I had a chance to help those kids--"

"You pushed even harder."

"No, Charlie. I remembered." Charlie swallowed as a brilliant smile lit Don's face. The last time he'd seen that smile was just before Don walked into that school--and the hands of a murderer. "My job is about life, Charlie. It's about protecting and saving and preventing. It's on the negative side of the equation, maybe, but it still equals the right thing."

Charlie knew that Don's explanation should be making him feel better, should at least give him the satisfaction of more data for his model, but somehow both anger and fear were mixing into a formless agitation and he had to fight to keep still.

"I finally had the chance to move some of the terms to the positive side. You should understand that. You of all people."

Charlie began to tremble. "They don't equal you," he whispered. "It still wouldn't balance."

"What?"

Charlie shook his head, pulled away. Don looked at him, open-mouthed. "Does it always have to be Big, Brave, Donnie to the rescue?"

Don laughed uneasily. This conversation was obviously still not going where he'd hoped. "Well, I had to do it for you so much I kind of got used to it, I guess. And now that you don't need me anymore, I have to find--"

And there it was. Charlie's own precipice. "That's a lie." Suddenly he was nine again, the night before high school started, and Don, with that casual cruelty he'd indulged in as they'd grown apart, was saying, So you think you're the big man now. Guess that means you don't need me anymore. "That's a lie," he repeated, his voice frantic. "Don't--don't say that."

"Charlie, of course it's not a lie." Don glared at him. "I used to save your skinny ass from bullies on a weekly bas--" He stopped, eyes widening, and stood. He rested one hand on Charlie's shoulder. "You really believe that," he said, voice husky. It was not a question.

"I still need you, Don." Charlie's words were quiet, precise. "More than anyone else ever could."

Silence. Charlie sat, frozen, while Don distractedly squeezed his shoulder, lifted the hand to rest it for a moment in his hair, dropped it back to his shoulder. Don cleared his throat. "I wasn't going to mention this yet, but I talked to Dr. Bradford."

Startled, Charlie looked up at his brother's profile, tight, controlled. "The shrink?"

"Yes, Charlie, the shrink." Don's voice was gentle. "He said that he'd be happy to see you." Charlie sucked in his breath. "Or both of us, or me first, then you, or give you some referrals if you think it'd be too weird to talk to him--however you want to play it. It's a little irregular, but it's pretty apparent you--you're having case-related stress issues." The words were dry, but Don's voice-- Charlie closed his eyes. "He did say that talking to you might help him place some of my issues in a clearer context."

"So I'm one of your issues."

"Of course you are, Charlie. Just like I'm one of yours."

Charlie sighed. He still hadn't moved, and neither had Don, as though that simple contact of hand on shoulder was all that kept them from being torn apart. "Yeah. Sure. I'll see him."

Don gave his shoulder a little shake.

"What's wrong with us?" Charlie whispered.

"What do you mean, buddy?"

"Why do we need a shrink just to talk to each other?" He looked up at his brother.

Don shook his head. "I don't know about you, but for me--there's so much, you know? I don't want to blow it."

Charlie digested that in silence. It was oddly comforting. And yet, what was the saying? Actions speak louder than words. "You can say or not say whatever the hell you want," he said in a low, fierce voice. "Just don't leave me again."

Don's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Never by my choice. That's all I can give you, Charlie. Please try to understand."

"I know. It's enough for today." And it was.


End file.
